Grades three through six were wonderful years, nestled in the rolling hills of the Town of Charlotte, Village of Sinclairville. Summers were filled with sleep outs in pup tents, playing army with toy guns, ramming around town on our banana seat bikes, and raiding neighbor’s gardens. Rows of carrots and onions would mysteriously disappear. Winters were spent sledding East Avenue hill, building snow forts, and playing hockey on the local farm pond with shovels for sticks and figure skates, shoveled clear of snow. We were all too poor to buy hockey skates, sticks, and pucks. No matter, in our minds we were winning the Stanley Cup at least once a week.
My friends, Tommy and Kevin, became masters of building tree forts. Tommy’s dad was the local undertaker in town, proprietor of Jordan’s Funeral Home. On his huge property was a piece of woods, his mother’s garden, dirt piles for us to jump on our bikes, and long driveways to race our skateboards. We scoured the neighborhood to come up with lumber and nails. A refuse door was a golden ticket. It would rest on two boards nailed between two trees, making the perfect platform for fighting off imaginary advancing enemy soldiers.
Oh, we loved to play soldiers. On rainy days we’d play indoors with little green men. Americans always won, exactly as reported by reports from Viet Nam on the CBS evening news with Walter Cronkite. Two of Sinclairville’s sons were sacrificed for our nation’s freedom. Walter and Peter. Two, out of a village of a couple of hundred. Over fifty years later and multiple visits to the Wall, just the thought of these two deaths cause my heart to break.
Walter was a helicopter pilot, Peter was an army infantryman, or so the grapevine reported. Peter’s younger brother was in special Ed class and loved to play around with us kids. We always made a place for him. The effects of Walter and Peter’s deaths weighed heavily on us. Ripples and whispers flowed though church pews and over back picket fences. Pain and grief were palpable, even though we kids had no idea how to respond.
Tommy, Kevin, and I would often lay in wait for Tommy’s dad to return from a call. His black Cadillac hearse would drive up the street and we’d scramble to take our places concealed in the hedges. We parted the bushes just enough to peek out and see his father pull the bagged corpse on the stretcher from the hearse and wheel it into the back door of the funeral parlor. Maybe, we hoped, we’d see an arm flop off the side. One summer day, we planned an ambush. Six pallbearers solemnly carried a casket out the front door, led by a somber preacher. We three suddenly stood up and raked the bereaved family, pallbearers, and corpse with our toy machine guns. Mrs. Nickerson, the family’s hired doorkeeper grabbed us by the nape of the neck and promptly removed us from the premises. Dinner that evening was eaten in shame and silence.
My third grade teacher, Mrs. Thompson, was a wonderful teacher and member of Dad’s congregation. She was married to a hard-working dairy farmer. Our bus driver, Ken Scott, bus 59, was also a dairy farmer. His callous hand laid out punishment to anyone who disrupted the silence or respectability of his bus.
When hunting season opened in November, senior high kids would carry their loaded shot guns to the bus stop. Because, well. You never knew when you’d see a twelve-point buck. The chamber would be emptied and the gun handed over to Ken for safe keeping until getting off the afternoon bus run. Not certain of the success of this innocent strategy, but it certainly reflected the culture and values of rural, western New York.
As I think about it, guns were part of the fabric of the community. Kevin had a beebee gun and a shooting range set up in his basement. My dad had a secret shotgun hidden in the stairwell that we all knew about. My sister’s boyfriend, Larry, had a gun until he shot out a neighbors basement window and his father took it away from him. His dad was a B-24 pilot shot down over the Polesti Oil Fields and held as a POW in a German camp until liberated. He kept a secret German Lugar in his attic, whose mysterious story us kids could only imagine.
The point was never about guns. Values came from the people, neighbors, all dirt poor, working farmers, teachers, undertakers, and bus drivers who genuinely cared for their neighbors. They coached the little league teams and responded to calls as members of the volunteer fire department. They bought ten cent Cokes from Kenny’s barbershop and drank them around the wood stove in front of Peterson’s Agway. We worshiped together, either in the Baptist, Catholic, or Dad’s United Methodist churches. We laughed, loved, and mourned together as neighbors, as friends, as God’s beloved community.
The Beloved Community; where all are loved. All are cared for. All are valued. All supported and supporting each other.
Good information about God’s Kingdom, even for an elementary school kid.
The mechanical linkage groaned, then clinked, as my dad downshifted into second gear then released the clutch. We were driving a U-Haul, one of many rentals during my youth, pulling into the town of my father’s next pastoral appointment. In that time and in that era the Bishops of the United Methodist Church believed in frequent itinerancy, historically rooted in early American circuit riders, riding horseback from town to town, visiting newly planted lay-led churches, bringing Holy Communion, whether the people wanted it or not. Moving preachers around tall steeples with associated compensation packages was an effective carrot and stick approach to supervision, families be damned.
Up the hill dad drove into town; his new church building up ahead on the right, nestled across from the village park. A towering crane was planted in the front yard, its telescopic reach extended, holding taut cables lashed to the church bell that was being removed before it fell on its own accord. A raging tornado drove through town six weeks earlier, leaving indiscriminate destruction in its wake. It lifted and rotated the church building off its foundation, removed the roof into the next zip code, and flung church pews far and wide, as if they were seeds and it was spring planting. Our first parsonage was in equally bad shape.
The prior pastor, Roger B. Smith, skilled in construction, was arranged to remain for a time to assist my father, who knew equally well how to swing a hammer, to get the church, parsonage, and village back into livable shape. It was the beginning of a life-long friendship, rooted in mutual respect, love of neighbor, and the success of a shared mission. Values I drank in and never forgot. Roger went on to become a prison chaplain at Attica.
Sinclairville was a blessed appointment for my father and our family. The church afforded him time to complete his undergraduate degree to prepare for seminary. My Sunday school teacher was the local bank vice-president, Herb Larson. He also played the organ and led the choir. When the basement flooded, he donned rubbers over his wingtips and squeegeed water dressed in his 3-piece suite just like the overall clad farmer and ever-smiling postmaster. Moses and the bull rushes. Jesus turning water into wine. Saul blinded on the road to Damascus. I may not remember the sermon I just (masterly) delivered, but those foundational Bible stories taught to me my Mr. Larson were deeply implanted in my DNA. Full stop, impressive.
Laps in the pool this morning were mindless. I had to share a lane, so my stroke selection was limited to crawl and breast. No dogging it with elementary back. No time to think. E-gads, I am selfish. Privileged, too. I had to rely upon the memories of last week’s laps to complete my memories.
Billy Glass was a NFL footballer who played for the Cleveland Browns. When the league went to Sunday games, he quit because Sunday was the day of resurrection, Christianity’s day of rest, our Sabbath. He wasn’t going to work on Sundays so he became a charismatic evangelist leading a traveling salvation show. He came to Jamestown and my father said we had to go. Pick up the babies and grab the old ladies, Neil Dimond sang. Tears filled my eyes as I responded to Billy’s emotional pleas to come down the aisle and dedicate my life to Christ. I was already Baptized, but this was my first personal claim. He touched me and made me whole.
Third grade began with me seated across the table from Celia and Kimberly, two of the most beautiful girls I ever set eyes upon. Coach Asquith caught my friend Scott peeing in the shower, so he made him stay after school to deep clean and disinfect the shower and locker room. Band instruments were assigned and there weren’t enough French horns to go around, so I left wanting. My older sister was dating the mayor’s son and I caught them necking on the living room sofa. I told Larry to “Cut that out, otherwise you’re going to get my sister pregnant.” Day hauled me into his office and told me about tadpoles swimming upstream. What?
H. Ray Harris was a retired widower who was kind enough to stop by every three months to celebrate Holy Communion for my father’s church. Mom always hosted a big Sunday dinner afterwards. Roast beef. Mashed potatoes. The whole nine yards.
His God son, Jeff, came one Sunday. He was a college student preparing for parish ministry, assigned to a tiny church in South Dayton. I was to go with him, I guess, to broaden my experience. He unlocked the church door and I set about to explore the place. I walked right up behind the pulpit, peered over the top (remember, I was a third grader) and could see in my mind’s eye a crowd of thousands waiting for me to proclaim the Gospel. The call was stirring.
Sinclairville had two Little League teams, farm teams we called them, and I was the catcher for team 2. Original name, don’t you think? I was the biggest kid on the team, so who better to guard the plate? I loved to talk smack to batters to distract them. After one game, as we were lined up to shake hands, another kid gave me a shove. I shoved back. Dad wasn’t there, so, so what? I smashed into him and began to trade punches, leading to an all out may lay. Everyone choose a partner. Arms and legs intertwined. Snot and blood. Howls and grunts. Coach pulled us apart, and I thought I caught an approving smile.
Emboldened with confidence, we set about to the next days practice. Our two hometown teams practiced on adjoining baseball diamonds. Before the coaches arrived we started yelling smack to the other team. Both teams came together and I faced off with the other team’s catcher. We punched, grappled, and wrestled each other to the ground. The crowd swelled and began to cheer. I pinned him to the ground with my knees on his shoulders. His face was without defense. As I lifted my right arm to give the fatal blow, I felt something. A pause. A thought. If I wasn’t careful, I could kill him. I stopped myself. Discipline. Honor. Integrity was at stake. I let him up. I never struck anyone else ever again. God saved me, when I was unable to save myself. Violence was not my calling. God had different plans.
Though abiding in the house on Harding Avenue for one year, there was another wrinkle in the time / space continuum. First-grade worked my brain hard, in search of comprehension, understanding, acceptance, values, and faith.
I woke from sleep late at night, darkness enveloping me. Daring to only open a slit between eyelids, less I be discovered, I stole a glance at my bedroom door. It began to open. No. It wasn’t the wind. It wasn’t the unseen hand of a sibling playing a trick on me. My eldest brother, Steve was already in college. Bryan and Cindy, well, they were doing what all junior high kids were doing at four in the morning; sleeping.
The door opened, making no sound, not even a creak in the ancient iron hinges. The space beyond, newly revealed, appeared to be misty, white, with a smudge of grey, floating, as if supernaturally given life. My stare was returned with silence. It was a standoff. Stalemate. Like kissing my sister, boxers butting heads before parting, a tied homecoming game.
At that time, in that place, it was just my Creator and me. The only option available was running away bravely. I did.
Aunt Thelma was dead. Fallen down her cellar staircase. Mother said it was no wonder, consider all the prescription medications she was taking. Apparently, she liked to doctor shop. Remember, this was the late 1960s. Coca-Cola probably was still manufactured with cocaine.
Uncle Toad (his real name was Cloyde) and Aunt Thelma lived in the central Pennsylvania burrow of Lewistown. Dad’s older brother, Toad was the surrogate father of a family abandoned by a two-bit moonshiner and a piss-poor bottler of home-made beer. It’s told when the August heat endured long, dozens of cases of homemade beer hidden in the attic blew their tops, soaking the house and home with the sticky, smelly aroma of yeast and hops.
So much for cover and concealment, gramps. Idiot. No wonder my grandmother kicked him out.
It didn’t matter; Toad was doing a fine job raising his brothers and sisters all by himself: John, Buck (Charles, my dad), Ann (Ann-a-Mary to us kids), Elsie, and Don.
We traveled as a family from Jamestown, NY to Lewistown, PA in dad’s Mercury Comet to take part in mourning Aunt Thelma’s death. Family time in the car. Nothing like it. There is a whole culture, faith, ethnicity, gender, family thing about death and grief.
Pennsylvania Dutch, we proudly self-identified. We were German, descendant Lutherans. Stoic. Hard working. Honest. I was a first-grader, a sponge, my developing brain soaking it all in.
Our family didn’t soften the blow. No sugar coating. Aunt Thelma was dead. Not passing over. Not just passed. Dead as the woodchuck bloating on the side of the road.
I’d heard about corpses but had never seen one. There she was, dressed nicely with more makeup than an amateur’s attempt to decorate a cake. Fingers, gaunt, pale, drawn. Eyes and mouth closed. I looked carefully from behind my mother’s skirt to see if there was any evidence of breathing. Nothing. Everything appeared as if Aunt Thelma was sleeping; except, she was in a box! A highly polished, very expensive looking box, with a hinged double door. (Did I mention she wasn’t breathing?) What in the?
Now, there’s something you don’t see everyday.
That night, right before going to bed, a guest in the home of a family friend, I spied the doorknob to the unseen attic, watching for the first sign of movement. Aunt Thelma was right behind that door; I just knew it. Aunt Thelma was gone, but not quite; absent, yet remembered; mortal, yet eternal, home with God.
Uncle Toad wept at her grave, his whole body rhythmically convulsing, hands rubbing his bald head. I cried, too; hurt for my father’s brother, his pain, suffering, and uncertainty about the future. Shared pain. Family love. Assurance of eternal life, spoken by the Lutheran pastor. That is what got us through.
Values matter.
I didn’t want to swim this morning. I stayed up too late. I near-napped through my morning meeting, eyes heavy, the coffee not nearly strong enough for my liking. The pool was quiet, the water cool. The Beatles played for the water aerobic class in the adjacent outdoor pool. One of the overhead lights flickered, apparent to only those of us swimmers choosing some variation of backstroke. Good thing I don’t have a seizure condition. The final lap brought relief, and a smile from Abe in the next lane over.
As my arms pulled through the water, I thought of death, or near-death experience from Harding Avenue.
My sister, Cindy, played the flute. At least, that was the instrument she was learning to play at Lincoln Junior High. An end-of-the-year, outdoor, band concert was scheduled and families and music boosters were invited to attend. Dad wheeled the Mercury Comet into a parking spot on the brick paved street, and we, as a family, headed out to the chairs the school district had set up for us. A perfect, or near-perfect, June day. 1967.
The sun was bright.
Wait. I had a pair of sunglasses in the car, in the glovebox. Without asking permission, more like a first-grader’s spasm, I ran across the lawn back to the car, paused at the street, remember looking left, then right. Thinking to myself the car, stage right, was sufficiently distant to facilitate my crossing, I bound into its path. Thirty miles an hour of bumper and grill slammed me into the curb. My world went black.
Nothing. No time. No space. Nothing. Like the plug had been pulled and the TV abruptly turns silent and black. All that was missing was a box.
Concussion separated me from time and space. I heard the quiet beating of my heart in my ear. An eye opened, just enough to jumpstart another of my missing senses. The world was silent and white, blurry with a smell of sterility, glass paneled, metal cabinets overtop a stainless-steel counter. Where was I? What happened? How long have I been out?
In walked man and woman, each focused on their own agenda, their own task at hand. White. His face was covered, her face was not. Murmurs. A glance. A smile, warm and kind. Look! He is alive! My mother appeared, held my hand, gathered me into her arms. Before I knew it, I was home in my own bed. Fifty-seven years later, the bump on the back of my head is a daily reminder of my own mortality, the closeness of sudden death, the seemingly inconsequential, random acts of life.
The moment matters. This moment matters. Death. Nothing. Followed by life, a gift, a welcome into a divine abode, abundant love, amazing grace.
God wasn’t done with me. Heck, I hadn’t hardly finished the first grade. God had plans.
Shit was about to get real, as they say. Dad sold his Sears and Roebuck kit house, assembled with the help of mom’s brothers, bought a house in town, and enrolled full-time at the local State University teacher’s college. His call to parish ministry, started at age 19 in the South Pacific. His call was about to pull out of the station at age 42 and begin its journey from college, to seminary, and ordination. Little did he know. Little did I know.
“Part-time, student pastors” we call them back in the day. Put a Bible in their hand, the love of Jesus in their heart, give them a blessing, frame a certificate autographed by the bishop, commission them good to go, and send them out to save the world.
Open Meadows not only defined the local geography but served also as the name of the small country church overlooking Chautauqua Lake. It was surrounded by, you guessed it, open meadows of wheat as far as the eye could see.
Dad had just delivered one of his earlier, unvarnished sermons about the wind of the Spirit; no one knows from whence it comes or where it goes (John 3:8). I sat in the tiny sanctuary, looking at the hole in the wall from an errant hunter’s shotgun slug, thinking about deer hunters, the wind, and the Spirit of God. I was six years old, the summer before entering first grade.
As I walked out the front doors of the church, I stood on the concrete stoop, enclosed by a wrought iron railing, the kind my father used to make, flanked by descending stairs, left and right. I saw the gentle, wave-like movement of mature wheat in the fields surrounding the church. Sun warmed my cheek.
The Spirit was moving. I felt the wind, and I was there to experience it. God with me. God calling me.
Laps. I’m swimming laps, as I have, off and on throughout my life. I love to swim, I just hate the drudgery of it all. Ultimately, I’m lazy. And a glutton. More the better, except when it comes to exercise. Going to the pool. Anticipation, which leads to anxiety. Lately, I’ve been trying to find motivation by imagining the luxury of the hot show waiting for me after I’m done. 15 laps. That’s all. Olympic swimmers can do that in minutes. It takes me half an hour. Instead of thinking about how much I have to go, I’m trying to mourn the laps that have passed, never, ever, to be swum again.
Today, I hit the water and punched “play.” Memories of first grade in that new house in Jamestown flooded back. 603 Harding Avenue, corner of Harding and Steward, right behind Fairmont Elementary School, just up the hill from the local corner store.
Prior owners of the house left a print on the living room wall, after they observed me spying it on a pre-purchase walk through. Paul Detlefsen, painter. The Big Red Caboose. Trains. Now we are talking. I loved trains, not the toys, the real deal. High horsepower. I’ve loved trains ever since Uncle Toad took me as a child down to the local yard to watch the Pennsylvania drill cars. That print has been with me ever since, much to my wife’s chagrins. The painting connects me to that house.
Neighbor. His name was Mike. We were both in the same grade. An Italian family. His dad made wine in their basement. Forbidden fruit, but, um, mmm, good. The house had a great back yard, where all the neighborhood kids played. We laughed, learned, and played tricks on one another. I learned to ride a bike on the brick surfaced neighborhood street.
The joy of bike riding was tempered by humiliation. I shit my pants trying to get to the bathroom in time. The stupid “Stop/Go” sign hanging from the bathroom door knob cost me that crucial extra half-second. When I got home from school, mom made me stand in the shower and wash out my own cloths. Thankfully, I was only at Fairmont for one year.
I kicked a hole in the wall in anger at my brother for not letting me return empty pop bottles, cashing them in for ice pops. “Just wait until dad gets home,” he grinned, knowing the licking that was in store for me. Mom got home and said, “Just wait until your father gets home.” Great. Like mother, like son. Waiting was torture.
Dad got home and we ate in silence. Bucky was good at the silence. After dinner he pulled the belt off his pants, bent my bare ass over his lap, and released his anger on my backside. I remember looking over my left shoulder, seeing my mother doing the dishes, pleading, “Now Bucky, don’t hurt the boy.” Thanks mom, for throwing me a solid.
The house, however, wasn’t about my failures, punishment, or humiliation. The kitchen was where I first celebrated Holy Communion, at the age of six. I walked home from school, got out from the refrigerator some of Welch’s grape juice and a loaf of bread, and went about celebrating Holy Communion, just as visiting Elders had done for my father at Open Meadows United Methodist Church once every three months. My brother, entered stage left, fresh home from Lincoln Junior High, asked, “What are you doing?” I told him.
“You can’t do that,” he replied.
Why? You just can’t, that’s why.
Well, I did. I had done it. What God has done, can not be undone. Like baptism. Like Holy Communion. I felt the wind of the Spirit and the warmth of the sun. God affirmed what I had done. God was calling. I didn’t know what or where. But, even at the age of six. I knew God’s sight was on me. God had plans. I just had to figure them out.
Tail-end. If ever there was a term to define my genesis, it would be tail-end. The last, unlucky jet scheduled to deliver ordinance, allowing the opposed to accurately direct their fire. The slowest runner in gym class. The fourth of four children to be born to Bucky and Alice, my father and mother destined to die.
Bucky, my dad’s childhood nickname, was born and raised a good Lutheran in central Pennsylvania, signed up for the Navy after Pearl Harbor, and served horrific years as a medic, Pharmacist Mate, third class. A nineteen-year-old kid recovering the corpses of 19-year-old battlefield casualties, shipping them home to suffering and bereaved families. First to France, then to the South Pacific, the hand of God delayed his landing at Iwo Jima in the first wave. When kamikaze planes broke a nearby warship at Leyte Gulf taking all hands with it, Dad made a foxhole promise to God that he would give his life to ministry, if allowed to survive. Alcohol abuse suppressed his demons and lent excuses to his delaying tactics.
Alice was born to a large family, but never lived to see her father, who died of Typhus while working timber. My grandmother tried to make ends meet, selling bread to the people in Lewistown, PA, but when the great depression hit, like a rising tide, the family was swept away. Mom found herself a resident of Malta Home, operated by the Knights of Malta, an orphanage, self-sustaining farm, and old age home for the poor. Children worked. Mom scrubbed. She ran away at age 17, where my uncle Dick took her in. Uncle Dick stood firm in the doorway as two, PA State Troopers demanded Alice’s return. “Over my dead body.” It just wasn’t worth it.
Alice, meet Bucky. Bucky goes to war, returns broken, unenumerable memories of death, and fueled with alcohol. The story goes that Alice told Bucky that if he ever again landed a hand on her in anger, they were done. Done. Fine’. Nada a second chance. Mom would and could make it on her own. She could, too. Dad swore off the booze, or so we thought, the demons suppressed, and life became the Shangri la of the baby boomer generation.
Dad welded for a living, taking night classes to become an accountant. The Saint Louis Arch, Navy submarine hulls, and neighborhood porch railing were the achievements of his calloused hands. My siblings arrived by C-section, all three, the last with the obstetrician’s warning that a fourth pregnancy would lead to her death. Anger reared its head, and my older brothers paid the price. Bucky’s promise to mom diverted, his promise to God delayed.
My mother became pregnant with me, and prepared herself to die, willingly accepting her fate that I might live. Willing to die that I might live. Familiar? She cried throughout my entire pregnancy, I’m told. Despite the obstetrician’s willingness to abort the tail-end Charlie, and the obscure state lines (with all their legal complications) I was born of Caesarian section in June, 1961, riding the final wave of the Baby Boomers. Tubes tied. A tic-tack-toe board of abdominal scars, my mother lived to die another day.
I may be a tail-end Charlie, but I’m a walking, talking, breathing miracle to be alive.
Dad had gotten a hold of a Methodist Book of Discipline during his service years, liked what he read, and was willing to be swept into the ocean of God’s amazing grace as taught by John Wesley. I was made a disciple of Jesus as an infant upon the baptismal vows promise by mom and dad at the Stillwater Evangelical United Brethren church, outside of Jamestown, NY. The cold water induced audible farts, I’ve been told.
Our family attended the Camp Street Methodist Church in town, becoming the United Methodist Church in the great merger of 1968. Yeah, the same year the Tet Offensive turned society upside down, when MLKing and Bobby Kennedy were shot. Camp Street hosted a wonderful Vacation Bible School; songs taught to me then bring comfort to me today. The pastor was Harold K. Guiser.
As a toddler I recall walking down the hall past his study. I looked in to see him in his black robe preparing for worship. God-like. Vitalis slicked back hair. Black, winged-tipped dressed shoes. The real deal. He saw me standing there, eyes unblinking. “Would you like a Bible,” he asked, calling me by name. I still have that New Testament and Psalms right by my side.
Reverend Guiser towered in the pulpit. He caught my attention one Sunday, even as I squirmed in the pew. “We all face a fork in the road,” he stated to a complacent congregation sitting in silence. I thought of my mother’s sterling four prong forks. “Each of us must choose,” he said. I thought to myself, I want to be on the winning team! I chose Jesus.
Choices. Choices matter. My choice was to go with Jesus.
Last time I returned from a respite was due to a devastating automobile collision, thankfully not my fault. It took six weeks to return to this workspace and three months before I returned to work. September 18, 2023 forever changed my life and the way I take it all in.
I return after six weeks of crickets chirping because I am blessed and privilege to retire from 38 years of active parish ministry, serving churches in the Finger Lakes region and the suburbs of Rochester, New York. My new office is the lap pool at the Jewish Community Center, where my muscles are stretched, the mind relaxes, focus returns. It is work, dreading the swim before, thankful and refreshed when completed, smiling and saying “Good morning” to most who I meet. Jewish folk music fills the environs and fills me with thanks for God’s great diversity and hand of providence.
June 16, 2024 was my last Sunday preaching. July 1st was the moment of crossover from reader, writer, preacher, pastor, one arm paper hanger; to the other side of life, my third trimester. I became just plain me. Shed like a molting creature, painful relationships are left behind, freeing me to focus on the people who I choose to keep in my life and an intentional effort to invest in these precious relationships.
Change is hard, I heard this morning. A friend’s death and resulting mourning, unchecked boxes, and inevitable regrets fogged the path forward. Lap counts. Strokes. Breaths. Keep breathing, less the tingling returns between the shoulder blades. My mind is on afterburners. I crack my head on the wall because my attention was ten thousand miles away.
In my experience, change is the delta between past, present, and future. As a classically trained mathematician, delta represents change: change in the area under the curve, ddx dy dx, calculus 101.
The delta between the past and present is fixed. I can’t go back. Time can’t be rolled back like a stained shag carpet. There are no do overs. My choices in the present are defined with prayer. Thank you God, for the opportunities afforded me, the amazing grace shown to me, the limitless love given to me. Praise be to God, who created all there is, all that was, and all that ever will become. I confess my faults to you, O Lord. I’ve made mistakes and I seek your forgiveness. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
My calculus for decision right here, right now is actualizing God’s gift. Seize the day! Time for a nap. Curl up with a good book. Return some emails. Taste and see the beauty of a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich served up by a waitress with a smile. Her name? Remember her name.
The delta between this actual occasion and the promise of the next one is not fixed. I have choices. With the exception of my eventual mortal death, the world is my oyster, God’s gift to me, free to explore and develop according to my interpretation of God’s will. Death is involuntary. Living is voluntary, defined by the God of my experience, the choices I make, the faith I explore, the values of my journey throughout life.
Choices matter. They carve out a canyon of a well lived life.
Experience matters. Who might be interested in my experience? I think to myself while mapping out choices about future revelations. Perhaps to those considering a call by God to serve as a pastor. Others may be interested to take a peek behind the curtains of a pastor’s life. It isn’t as it seems. Nope. You are not even close.
The practice of pastoral ministry is mind-blowing, way more diverse than I anticipated 43 years ago as I went off to seminary, packing a brand new Brother electric typewriter. Value doesn’t come from the height of the steeple, the breadth of the compensation package, or the academic quality of Biblical exegesis preparing for Sunday’s sermon.
Value, I have found, comes from the people. The good. The bad. The ugly. The Spirit of God weaves its way through the living and dying of people that intersect with life. How beautiful my life has been to have been surrounded by saints, martyrs, colleagues, and friends? How wonderous my life has been to have been show the abyss of evil and the depravity of sin? The Spirit’s hand of providence has been steadfast by my side, my strength when my own strength was exhausted, my rudder steering me through the hurricane of life. Words fail.
How diverse? you might ask. Strap in and hold on. I was taught the art of psychiatric assessment, which has served me well. Police chaplaincy. Been there, done that, drank the cold coffee after riding the night shift. Fire and EMS. Someone has to answer the call when a neighbor is in need. Mortality. I can write a book about funerals, families, and who put the the dys in dysfunction. Clergy. I helped make the sausage. I know where the bodies are buried. “And Are We Yet Alive” we sing each year in executive session. There’s a reason for that. Even the feet of a bishop stinks when shoes are removed.
Aging. Alzheimer’s disease. Disabilities, and the theology of disabilities. Addiction. Incarceration. Short term missionary experiences in Central America. Pilgrimages to the land of Jesus, Abraham, and Moses. Yes. I can write a book that brings meaning and adds value to life. Perhaps I will.
If, by God’s grace, I am so able, the sanctity of the confessional will be maintained, victims and perpetrators will be hidden behind masks as seen in Greek theatre, and context will be sufficiently obscure. No motives. No agenda. No regrets. Amends have been paid in full. Anonymity is a beautiful thing. Your secrets I will bear alone to my grave. The pathway to hell, the medieval mystic whispers, is paved with the skulls of priests.
He also said, “The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground, and would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how. The earth produces of itself, first the stalk, then the head, then the full grain in the head. But when the grain is ripe, at once he goes in with his sickle, because the harvest has come.”
He also said, “With what can we compare the kingdom of God, or what parable will we use for it? It is like a mustard seed, which, when sown upon the ground, is the smallest of all the seeds on earth; yet when it is sown it grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade.”
With many such parables he spoke the word to them, as they were able to hear it; he did not speak to them except in parables, but he explained everything in private to his disciples.
| Centering Prayer |
What is truth?
We live in an age where truth appears to be elusive.
Even facts are hard to come by.
Depending on your political leanings,
Either the election was stolen,
Or it wasn’t.
Either there is a deep state working
For the benefit of one or another,
Or there isn’t.
Either we are being manipulated by the Russians, Chinese, Iran, North Korea, or QAnon,
Or we aren’t.
Deep fakes, artificial intelligence, and machine learning
Make skeptics of us all.
What is truth? Plato inquired of his students.
“I’ll get that paperwork right over to you,” a less-than-reliable colleague promises.
“Yea, right,” I cynically whisper under my breath.
“When hell freezes over.”
We are told that our taxes will be cut while at the same time we are led to believe that more will be provided.
We are told that the newest and latest educational efforts will ensure every child will be prepared to enter the work force or attend college.
We are told that the way to riches is simply “a dollar and a dream.”
What is truth?
Plato taught that we could know truth if we could sublimate our minds to their original purity.[1]
It is my observation that the more we are subjected to the relativistic half-truths of the world the more cynical we become.
All politicians become liars.
All CEOs and members of corporate boards are on the take.
All clergy and church officials are predators.
All marketing people would surrender their first born to the devil if they could only land one more sale.
What is truth? Pilate asks his detained prisoner.
Cynicism breeds the whole grey area
of shifting sands, called relativism.
Truth is understood in terms of how it relates to other realities.
One person’s truth may or may not be another person’s truth.
Absolute truth,
the fact from which all other truths proceed and are judged,
become as dust in the wind.
We can all get along as long as we can tolerate other people’s world perspective.
But as soon as someone else’s understanding of truth collides head on with our sense of truth,
well, then, we have trouble.
The Survivor contestant
Makes an alliance one week
Only to betray their alliance the next.
The promising job appraisal one day
Is followed by layoffs the next.
The MRI is clean
Until it isn’t.
Israel says, “this is where the border is drawn.
It was established by David and
confirmed by the British in the Balfour Declaration of 1917 and
by the United Nations in 1948.”
To which the Palestinian replies, “who was here before Joshua?
An all-to-common reaction to the fluidity of relativism is fundamentalism.
Webster identifies fundamentalism as
a return to fundamental principles, by rigid adherence to those principles, and often by intolerance of other views and opposition to secularism.[3]
Christian fundamentalism can be summed up by the bumper sticker that reads
“The Bible says it. I believe it. That settles it!”
Fundamentalism stems from natural fears that a person’s values, culture, belief, and faith are being threatened.
United Methodists are NOT fundamentalists.
But there is danger in dividing the world into two partisan camps – one being strict adherence according to my beliefs – and the other being “anything goes,” “live and let live,” amoral living.
Creativity is suffocated.
Honest inquiry searches for answers somewhere between these two poles.
Diversity has value – political diversity, ethnic diversity, gender diversity – and it is couched in the world between these two extremes.
God didn’t create us with the gift of free will and determination so that we could dismiss it, sit back, and allow ourselves to be spoon fed what others champion as Truth.
We aren’t mindless dolts, pre-programmed Lemmings set to work by some twisted cosmic manipulator.
No!
God gives a brain for a reason – to use it!
to reason with it!
to ask questions! and
to go about a quest for answers!
Stop.
Be still.
Think.
Think critically.
What is truth? Pilate asks Jesus right before he is sentenced to death.
This curious question comes as a response to Jesus saying
“For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.”[4]
Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to the voice of Jesus.
Faithful Christians have been contemplating these words of Jesus for centuries.
Catherine of Siena,
Teresa of Ávila,
Karl Barth,
Paul Tillich,
… all the great writers and thinkers of Christianity have attempted to wrap themselves around these words of Jesus.
The gold standard for knowing what is truthful for the Christian
is to replace our human will
with the eyes
and ears
and mind
and heart
of Jesus Christ.
Substitute the self for Jesus – and your eyes will be opened to see the truth in the world unlike you will have ever witnessed before.
Look through the eyes of Jesus and begin to see people as individuals.
I see a CEO who is generous, loving, and kind
– who practices good stewardship of time, talent and treasures
– who caries Jesus in her heart to every business meeting she attends.
I see pastors who love their people, politicians who serve their constituents, and bikers who motorcycle for Christ.
Place the heart of Christ within you, and experience the passion of Christian disciples
– coming from all walks of life
– with every possible skin color
– from every type of religious upbringing
– as we all work together for the completion of the Kingdom of God.
Experience the world as the hands, feet, eyes, ears, mind and heart of Christ, and your eyes will be opened to the half-truths and lies that abound:
Riches lead to happiness. NOT TRUE!
Pornography doesn’t hurt anyone. FALSE!
It’s ok to use drugs, so long as you don’t hurt others. LIES!
Hurt in a car?
Trust me! I’m from Rochester, not Buffalo. DAM LIARS.
Lies! Lies! And more Lies!
Not because that’s what I think.
I speak the truth because
Jesus tells us that we are to love others,
not take advantage of them or exploit them.
Jesus tells us to use our treasures to build up the eternal,
not to accumulate that which rusts and decays away.
Jesus tells us to place our trust and security in God,
and in God alone,
not in weapons
or power
or might.
What is the truth when it comes to matters of God’s kingdom?
Jesus tells us this morning,
“The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground.”
The seeds are nurtured
by rain, sun, and soil.
They grow to maturity and
produce abundantly, and then
they are harvested.
Now, if your mind doesn’t make sense of metaphors, I don’t know what I can tell you, because Jesus is teaching in metaphor. He does it to avoid premature arrest and death.
This is the truth regarding today’s lesson:
The kingdom of God is in a state of growth.
It is growing bigger and stronger all the time.
Take heart if you look around and feel discouraged about where it appears the world is headed.
The world is not headed straight to hell!
The world is headed straight to heaven
– it may just take a little bit of time
and a lot of hard work
for everyone to get there!
Focus instead on the Kingdom; where it’s been,
where it is at, and
anticipate where it is growing.
If you’re standing idly by,
step in and step up
to take your share of responsibility for advancing God’s kingdom – one step at a time.
Jesus tells us that we can compare the Kingdom of God with a mustard seed,
the smallest of seeds
but one of the largest bushes.
Do not look upon God’s Kingdom and underestimate it.
That would be a foolish thing to do. The point isn’t the size.
The point is the potential within.
With the almighty power of God, the extravagant love of Jesus Christ, and the unlimited influence of the Holy Spirit,
there is nothing that can contain the Kingdom of God.
Its potential is without limits.
Potential and growth;
what else is necessary to discern the truth about the Kingdom of God?
And the crowd came together again, so that they could not even eat. When his family heard it, they went out to restrain him, for people were saying, “He has gone out of his mind.” And the scribes who came down from Jerusalem said, “He has Beelzebul, and by the ruler of the demons he casts out demons.” And he called them to him, and spoke to them in parables, “How can Satan cast out Satan? If a kingdom is divided against itself, that kingdom cannot stand. And if a house is divided against itself, that house will not be able to stand. And if Satan has risen up against himself and is divided, he cannot stand, but his end has come. But no one can enter a strong man’s house and plunder his property without first tying up the strong man; then indeed the house can be plundered.
“Truly I tell you, people will be forgiven for their sins and whatever blasphemies they utter; but whoever blasphemes against the Holy Spirit can never have forgiveness, but is guilty of an eternal sin”— for they had said, “He has an unclean spirit.”
Then his mother and his brothers came; and standing outside, they sent to him and called him. A crowd was sitting around him; and they said to him, “Your mother and your brothers and sisters are outside, asking for you.” And he replied, “Who are my mother and my brothers?” And looking at those who sat around him, he said, “Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.”
| Centering Prayer |
Whoever does the will of God
Is my brother
And sister
And mother.
I was born into an ocean of grace
That has swept me as if in a riptide
To where and what and how
God has intended me to be.
It is as if
God’s will in my life
Has been a stream of living water
Carving a Grand Canyon
Sweeping me to where God wants me
To do what God wants me to do,
To be as God intended.
I’ve been surrounded by
Family living intentionally according to God’s will.
My mother, Alice, was God’s grace in the flesh,
A life filled with love, discipleship, and selfless sacrifice.
She took upon herself to scrub church floors on her hands and knees
And supply parishioners with a seemingly endless supply of apple pies.
My father, Charles,
Buckey to everyone else,
Led by the hand of Jesus
Through epoch naval battles
To the doorway of seminary
And eighteen years serving churches
As a pastoral servant in our annual conference.
Blood brothers and sister
All have led lives
Channeled by God’s grace,
According to God’s will.
Sobriety and service,
Teaching and study,
Volunteering in missions,
Raising Christian sons and daughters
Each according to their own call.
Steve, Cindy, and Bryan
I tip my hat and bow
That you have been responsive to God’s call and will in your lives.
The greatest blessing of my life
Is my wife, Cynthia,
God’s gift to me,
My center of gravity,
My confidant, my love;
Who’s life call has been to
Support mothers and babies,
Their health and wellness;
God’s will playing forth
By loving hands,
Kind words,
And a compassionate heart.
I pale in her shadow.
My sons have found God’s will for their lives
Through faithful worship,
Making family with people with physical and developmental disabilities,
Always supportive, strong, loving, and wise.
Their paths have been different,
Yet have converged upon the same,
Listening to the still, small, voice of God
And responding accordingly.
Whoever does the will of God
Is my brother
And sister
And mother.
I gaze in awe
At the families who have become
Part of my life and family,
Summer staff who have
Faithfully listened and answered God’s call for their lives,
Becoming local church leaders and pastors,
Teachers and captains of industry,
Scientists and clinicians,
Each, kindhearted,
Disciples of Jesus.
I am a brother to seminary kin,
Ordained and deployed across the globe,
Witnessing to the God of their experience,
Spirit filled leaders inviting people into a relationship with Jesus,
Serving in diverse locations and circumstances.
From Haiti to Nebraska to Israel,
Wow, I’m in awe,
Of the impact they have made
On behalf of Christ and His Church.
The ordained is to be granted the keys to God’s kingdom,
A responsibility I take seriously.
To be ordained is to have my call,
God’s will for my life,
Confirmed by concentric circles of discernment
That included the Pastor Parish Relations Committee of the Chemung United Methodist Church,
The Elmira District Committee on Ordained Ministry,
The Central New York, and later, the North Central New York Conferences Boards of Ordained Ministry.
My brothers and sister clergy
Form a holy sea,
Imperfect as we are,
Each traveling on the road to Christian perfection.
I am so blessed and privileged to dawn the stole of the ordained,
To take my place at the table of apostles,
Serving only the Lord, Jesus Christ,
His people,
His kingdom.
Family,
People dedicated to doing the will of God
Share a common baptism,
An invisible sign of God’s eternal grace.
The majority of my family
Are not blood relatives
Or clergy colleagues,
But the laity who lead local churches
Where I have been privileged to serve.
God’s will and call
Knows no bounds.
I’ve been holy collaborators with
Lay leaders throughout the Finger Lakes
And the greater Rochester region.
Oh, how I love you,
Your willingness to serve Christ and his kingdom,
Loving God,
Loving neighbors.
You are my mothers,
My sisters, and
My brothers.
My life and call to pastoral ministry
Has not been all mountain top experiences.
Our family has endured death, disease, and disappointment.
Some have wondered,
But, thankfully, have always returned home.
Through every trial, temptation, and sin
God never abandoned me.
I always experienced God’s sustaining grace
Through periods of despair, discouragement, suffering, and pain.
Life has not been always rosy,
But I’ve always been sustained by this beautiful ocean of grace,
Those of you gathered here,
And thousands surrounding us as a cloud of witnesses,
Strong, loving, present,
The Body of Christ,
Spirit filled,
Family.
Families don’t always get along.
Pride, arrogance, and stubbornness
Have led to hurt and harm.
Yet, … even yet,
Our common baptism,
Our common love of Jesus,
Our common desire to do the will of God
Unites us,
Warts and all.
Whoever does the will of God
Is my brother
And sister
And mother.
Beloved,
And I mean that in the fullness sense of the word,
You are loved,
By God and by me.
You are loved by your sisters, brothers, and mothers,
One Sabbath he was going through the grain fields; and as they made their way his disciples began to pluck heads of grain. The Pharisees said to him, “Look, why are they doing what is not lawful on the Sabbath?”And he said to them, “Have you never read what David did when he and his companions were hungry and in need of food? He entered the house of God, when Abiathar was high priest, and ate the bread of the Presence, which it is not lawful for any but the priests to eat, and he gave some to his companions.” Then he said to them, “The Sabbath was made for humankind, and not humankind for the Sabbath; so the Son of Man is lord even of the Sabbath.”
Again he entered the synagogue, and a man was there who had a withered hand. They watched him to see whether he would cure him on the Sabbath, so that they might accuse him. And he said to the man who had the withered hand, “Come forward.” Then he said to them, “Is it lawful to do good or to do harm on the Sabbath, to save life or to kill?” But they were silent. He looked around at them with anger; he was grieved at their hardness of heart and said to the man, “Stretch out your hand.” He stretched it out, and his hand was restored. The Pharisees went out and immediately conspired with the Herodians against him, how to destroy him.
| Centering Prayer |
The interpretation of scripture
Is a time-honored tradition.
I do it nearly every day
And proclaim my results nearly every Sunday.
Every occasion when the Word of God is proclaimed
The preacher is charged with the revered responsibility
Of interpretation.
It’s a sacred responsibility I take seriously.
If only scripture was simple, straight forward, and required no interpretation.
Biblical interpretation implies an objective Truth served up in the Gospel,
Coupled with a subjective experience and influence of the Holy Spirit.
This is why two different preachers will have
Two different interpretations of the same scripture lesson.
Each has an unique point of view, background experience, culture, gender, economic status, Biblical and theological education.
Each is subjectively, personally moved by the Holy Spirit of God.
My father,
A tenured ordained elder in the United Methodist Church,
And I had a difference of interpretation of the third commandment
As found in Deuteronomy 5:12
“Observe the Sabbath day and keep it holy, as the Lord your God commanded you.”
For my father,
That meant no work on Sundays:
You don’t mow the lawn.
No house cleaning.
You don’t catch up on odd jobs around the house.
You don’t even go golfing.
Sundays were reserved for going to church,
Having a large family meal after church,
And lounging around the house for the rest of the day.
What a waste of the afternoon, I’d often thought as a child.
His Sabbath world view
Was about the prohibition of work
And keeping the day holy by going to church.
These values are deeply instilled within me,
For which, I am eternally grateful.
Yet, I have come to discover,
Or, it has been revealed to me,
There is much more here,
Highlighted in the Gospel
For us to interpret and apply.
The Spirit moves.
The Lord gives
Essential truths that challenge and change
The way I had always understand Sabbath.
In the same tradition as my father
I draw different conclusions.
The Pharisees and Jesus came to completely different
Interpretations of the third commandment,
As recorded in two different locations:
In Exodus 20 and Deuteronomy 5.
The worldview of Pharisees in context of ancient Israel
Is very different from ours today.
Pharisees saw the world
In the context of Roman occupation,
A complex Temple economy,
With an upstart, potentially destabilizing, self-proclaimed Messiah
From the rural north country of Galilee coming to Jerusalem.
The Pharisees viewed the world in crisis and political turmoil.
On the one hand,
The world was a place of opportunity;
Privilege, wealth, and status.
On the other hand,
The world was in great jeopardy during a dangerous time.
Thank goodness the Pharisee didn’t have Facebook!
Pharisees saw the Ten Commandments,
The Law,
As a list of prohibitions
Given by God to God’s chosen people,
To keep community stability.
For the most part, I agree with their interpretation,
Just as my father did.
The Ten Commandments were finite, literally set in stone,
And needed another 613 commandments,
Called “mitzvoth”,
To fully interpret and expound upon these ten.
Jesus had a more expansive worldview.
Jesus was frying other fish.
He saw things differently.
His interpretation was so potentially destabilizing
The Pharisees and Herodians conspired against him,
“How to destroy him,” Mark recorded. (3:6)
Jesus didn’t see the third commandment
About observing the Sabbath day and keeping it holy
As a prohibition.
Unlike many of the other prohibitive commandments,
(Think “Thou shall not …”)
Jesus understands the Sabbath law as permissive.
Jesus sees Sabbath law as liberation,
A means of God’s mercy and grace,
Towards God’s chosen, adapted, and loved people.
Jesus interprets it differently
By reading the third commandment
In the context of God’s larger recorded words.
Let me explain.
Here is the whole third commandment in
Deuteronomy 5:12-15:
“Observe the Sabbath day and keep it holy, as the Lord your God commanded you. Six days you shall labor and do all your work. But the seventh day is a Sabbath to the Lord your God; you shall not do any work—you, or your son or your daughter, or your male or female slave, or your ox or your donkey, or any of your livestock, or the resident alien in your towns, so that your male and female slave may rest as well as you. Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and the Lord your God brought you out from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm; therefore the Lord your God commanded you to keep the Sabbath day.”
Here is same commandment as recorded in Exodus 20:8-11.
The difference is important.
“Remember the Sabbath day, and keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work. But the seventh day is a Sabbath to the Lord your God; you shall not do any work—you, your son or your daughter, your male or female slave, your livestock, or the alien resident in your towns. For in six days the Lord made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that is in them, but rested the seventh day; therefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day and consecrated it.”
Here’s the context:
The Lord’s Sabbath commandment
From Deuteronomy
Was delivered to newly freed slaves.
God hates slavery,
Always has, always will.
God hates everything about slavery,
Where one oppresses another with intimidation and violence,
Where one works another person hard,
Every daylight hour,
Seven days a week.
Think about it:
Our Hebrew ancestors
Held in Egyptian slavery
Worked seven days a week
Under the hot African sun.
Now, God is giving the newly freed Hebrews
A day off.
God created the weekend!
This was the first labor law in God’s kingdom.
This was a law every freed Hebrew would enthusiastically keep!
This wasn’t prohibition;
This was permission!
Some have observed that western culture
Has improved the Sabbath law with the creation of the two-day weekend.
I’m not certain we can improve upon the Lord’s work, but …
I believe God must be pleased with two days of rest.
From Exodus and Deuteronomy
It is important to recognize
The Sabbath’s permission to rest
Extends to sons and daughters,
To slaves (why weren’t they freed, too?) and livestock, and
To resident aliens (AKA … immigrants, green card holders, migrant workers, undocumented foreigners, illegal aliens).
(Exodus 20:10b, Deuteronomy 5:14)
Rest!
Rest! The Lord commands.
Everyone needs to rest,
Because rest is liberation;
Salvation from slavery and captivity.
A characteristic signature of God’s kingdom from the Gospel of Mark
Is liberation, freedom, and salvation.
The command to rest for Jesus
Is first, and foremost,
A line in the sand advocating for justice.
Everyone deserves rest.
Jesus observes before the Pharisees
“The Sabbath was made for humankind,
And not humankind for the Sabbath.” (2:27)
Let’s look at Exodus,
As if we are looking from Jesus’ point of view.
Exodus expands the context:
The Lord’s Sabbath commandment
Was delivered to newly freed slaves who were children of Abraham,
Living in covenant with the God of creation.
Rest!
For in resting
We are mirroring the creative behavior
Of our God that created the heavens and the earth in six days
And rested on the seventh.
(Exodus 20:11)
Furthermore,
The command to rest for Jesus
Is about connecting God’s people
With the God who created us,
Our Heavenly Father.
The relationship we have with God
Defines the deep roots of our faith
That anchors us throughout life.
Sabbath.
Rest.
Freedom.
Creation.
Life.
Living in relationship with God.
Keeping the Sabbath day holy
Is permission to reflect upon the sacredness of life:
What it means to live
As God’s child,
Chosen,
Called,
Sent,
Redeemed, and
Saved.
The Sabbath was made for life!
“The Sabbath was made for humankind, and not humankind for the Sabbath; so the Son of Man is lord even of the Sabbath.” (2:27-28)
“The Son of Man is lord even of the Sabbath.” (2:28)
Game on, Pharisees.
Good news for the world.
Not so much good news for the Pharisees.
The stage is set for the remainder of the Gospel of Mark.
Jesus has never been afraid to lean into privilege,
To speak truth to power,
To bring liberation and freedom,
To draw a line in the sand for social justice.
Jesus always invites his chosen to
embrace creation,
Celebrate life, live in righteousness,
With the same faithfulness God has shown towards us.
Dearly beloved,
Sabbath yourselves.
Jesus, lord of the Sabbath,
Invites us to imagine what the world would look like
If it were transformed into the Kingdom that God is planning.
Let us dream of a world that is just and fair,
Where all may find rest,
Where all may fall into love and relationship
With the God who created them.
Let us learn from Jesus.
Let us boldly follow his example.
Let us be the hands of Jesus to bring Sabbath to the world.
Now there was a Pharisee named Nicodemus, a leader of the Jews. He came to Jesus by night and said to him, “Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.” Jesus answered him, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.” Nicodemus said to him, “How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?” Jesus answered, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit. Do not be astonished that I said to you, ‘You must be born from above.’ The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” Nicodemus said to him, “How can these things be?” Jesus answered him, “Are you a teacher of Israel, and yet you do not understand these things? “Very truly, I tell you, we speak of what we know and testify to what we have seen; yet you do not receive our testimony. If I have told you about earthly things and you do not believe, how can you believe if I tell you about heavenly things? No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man. And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life. “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. “Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.
| Centering Prayer |
Our Gospel for this morning is one
that dives to the core of John’s evangelical character.
The Gospel of John is one that is all about
the nature of Christ,
the kingdom of God,
and the power of the Holy Spirit.
It is deeply theological in nature,
– Lots of God talk –
weaving these common threads
(unlike the other three Gospels)
throughout the text.
It seems that wherever you open the Gospel of John,
we see and experience Jesus,
his emerging kingdom,
and the power and presence of the Holy Spirit.
…
Nicodemus,
a leader, back in the day, of organized religion,
a Jew,
comes to Jesus under darkness of night.
Outwardly, Nicodemus is an antagonist of Jesus.
Yet our text for this morning reveals that this may be a false front,
a façade that hides a deeper motive.
Does he come to uncover evidence to use against Jesus?
Does he come to learn more about him?
Or, …. Perhaps he comes with a longing desire to draw close to Jesus.
We can only wonder.
We will never know.
From this encounter emerges
awkward dialogue
on the part of Nicodemus.
Jesus, using his best non-anxious presence,
allows Nicodemus to stammer and stutter,
kick the dirt,
and begin to speak:
“Rabbi, we know what you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.” (John 3:2)
This isn’t a question.
This is a statement …
acknowledging the fact that Jesus has been doing signs,
signs that are completely impossible without the assistance of God.
His observation is followed by a statement of belief.
What a surprise –
a holy man from headquarters who has some sense of belief and faith!
It is an opening.
It is all the invitation Jesus needs to begin to speak.
Jesus lays the foundation, the groundwork, upon which he builds his ministry.
I am most drawn to three of his points,
As found in verses 3, 5, and 8.
1. “No one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.” (John 3:3)
Jesus feels the great desire that Nicodemus has burning in his heart.
Nicodemus, like all the rest of us, has a great need to see God’s kingdom
– not in the hereafter, mind you,
rather, in the here and now.
Our motives are good.
We seek to work for the betterment of society,
and to do it in the name of the Lord, well, that’s all the better.
The faithful Jew heeds the Law, honors the Covenant, and listens to the prophets.
The faithful Christian follows the life and lifestyle of Jesus,
reaching out to the poor, the disadvantaged, the outcast, the widow and the orphaned.
We would like to think that what we do,
in some small way,
is making a difference,
is making headway,
in establishing God’s kingdom
on earth as it is in heaven.
But, Jesus tells us
that the only way to see the kingdom is by being born from above.
We can work all day and all night to improve our world,
but without being born from above,
all our work will be limited,
all our efforts will be temporal,
with a lifespan, with a natural cycle of birth, life, and death.
What makes our efforts a part of God’s eternal plan, however,
is when we work in the life and Spirit from above.
When the Spirit is in us,
our eyes are opened,
we are given sight unlike we’ve ever seen before.
The Spirit allows us to see God’s kingdom as it really is;
love and grace cascading from the throne,
from the Lamb,
flowing through the highways and pathways of life,
ebbing into every area of our world.
Through the Spirit’s insight
we become like metal filings oriented by God’s magnet,
directed towards all good works and ministry that is God’s will.
Being born from above allows
the blind to see, the deaf to hear, and the challenged to stand.
Being born from above allows
us to take that first step into God’s eternal, earthly kingdom.
2. Jesus tells the wondering Nicodemus,
“No one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit.” (John 3:5)
Birth is such a wonderful metaphor for entering life in the kingdom.
Birth is a water-born transition from the protection of the womb
into the big, bold, wonder-filled world.
It is an opportunity to step out of our former life,
molding our old skin and leaving it behind,
turning to the Light,
and making the first bold step into the kingdom.
Water marks the transition for Noah
from a world of sin to a world wiped cleaned and renewed.
Water became the sign and symbol of salvation
when the Red Sea parted and allowed Moses and our ancestors to pass.
The baptismal waters, of Jesus in the Jordan are the very same baptismal waters that touched you.
Our common baptism
welcomes each of us into the community of God’s chosen.
By your baptismal waters,
sealed by the same Spirit that descended upon Jesus,
you have already been given your entry into God’s kingdom.
You’ve already passed the bar,
done all that is necessary for living a life in the Spirit,
in a kingdom created and ruled by God,
a kingdom of grace and love.
Too many Christians spend far too much time
worrying over their final disposition.
“Are you saved?”
“Am I saved?”
“Say the name of Jesus and be saved.”
I’m sure you’ve heard it all before.
Salvation has become a tactic of fear,
instead of a means of grace – as it was meant to be.
Jesus tells us to stop planning for tomorrow.
Tomorrow has been accounted for.
We’ve already been given the keys to the kingdom.
The inheritance is already ours to claim.
Instead of worrying about tomorrow,
Jesus wants us to be focused on doing his mission and ministry today.
3. “The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” (John 3:8)
To be honest, this is one of my favorite passages from the Gospel of John.
For me and
From my experience living a life of faith as a disciple of Jesus Christ,
this verse has opened to me great insight and meaning.
“The wind blows where it chooses,” I often abbreviate
when engaging in conversation
with people testing the water of spiritual life.
What lies behind this statement are the primary attributes of the Holy Spirit.
The Spirit is like the wind.
You don’t see it.
Evidence is only by indirect observation.
We see the trees wave.
We feel our hair being blown astray.
We know it is present.
It just is.
The Spirit, like the wind,
blows where it chooses.
It is absolutely impossible to anticipate or predict
The Spirit’s presence, action or direction.
There are times in my life
when the Spirit calls me to reevaluate
my direction,
my interactions,
my spiritual focus.
There are times in my experience that the Spirit supports and affirms my spiritual journey.
There are times in my experience when the Spirit calls me in a different direction.
There have been times in my past where I have felt that the Spirit was absent.
Intellectually, theologically, I don’t believe the Spirit has been absent;
for me, I experienced the perception that I was in a spiritual wilderness.
There are times when our motives are synchronized with the Spirit
and there are times when our motives butt heads.
Sometimes I find myself in conflict with the Spirit.
The goal, for me and from my experience,
is to wholly surrender –
– wholly surrender –
my will to the will of the Spirit,
to allow the Spirit to completely lead and guide me
through everything I think, say, and do.
You hear the sound of it.
What kind of noise does the Spirit make?
I hear the Spirit in many ways.
At annual conference, it may be through a great preacher, lively music, clapping and singing.
In a trout stream, it may come with the sound of the line being caste through the air.
When I walk through the church building
it may be the giggle of children,
running of water washing hands in the bathroom,
or the sound of singing coming from the adult class room or the choir rehearsing ….
– I hear the sound of the Spirit.
When someone shares with me a heartfelt concern
– either during prayers in worship or in the privacy of a confessional –
I hear the sound of the Spirit.
When seated at our family’s dinner table, we sing our grace,
hear the noise of sparks flying from knife and fork,
and talk about the day’s events,
that’s when I hear the sound of the Spirit.
“We do not know,” is a powerful statement.
Jesus tells us that being alive in the Spirit involves mystery.
If you’re not comfortable with living with mystery,
with living with the unknown,
then, well, until you become acclimated with the mystery of God,
you will experience a tension that sometimes can be uncomfortable.
Know this,
you are not alone in your discomfort.
In my life, it is all about process;
a continuum that gradually yields to greater ease,
greater comfort,
greater satisfaction living in harmony with God.
In today’s lesson we find ourselves in conversation with Jesus,
our Lord and Savior,
as he prepares his disciples for the time that would soon come,
when his Holy Spirit would descend upon them at Pentecost.
With God our heavenly Father,
we have all the constituent components for the Trinity,
Breaking Yokes 